


Addicted

by HipHopAnonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Bondage, Breathplay, Caning, Dark, Handcuffs, Implied Holmescest, Implied Mystrade, Implied/Referenced Incest, Knifeplay, M/M, No Safeword, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, Violence, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous
Summary: Mycroft Holmes punishes Jim Moriarty for causing a criminal mess.





	Addicted

“You’ve caused an awful lot of trouble for me, James.”

Mycroft didn’t even pretend to be surprised at seeing Jim Moriarty sprawled out on his sofa, lazily gripping two knuckles worth of brown liquor in a very expensive glass. Jim let his head roll back to make glassy eye contact with Mycroft.

“Oh, I know,” Cheshire Cat smile. “And loads of entertainment for your baby brother, I might add.” He took a sip of the alcohol.

“I can see that isn’t your first glass.”

“Oh no, you took a _terribly_ long time to clean up my latest mess. Much longer than I expected. I must have overestimated your abilities – I’ve been waiting for _ages_.” He raised the glass, “Had to keep myself occupied somehow.”

“I think you’re just nervous about how much I’m going to hurt you this time.”

Jim sucked in a quick breath. Imperceptible. He hoped it was imperceptible. He quickly recovered with an even broader grin and shrugged, “Oh is that what we’re doing? Yes, yes – I’ve been so terribly _naughty_. I need to be _punished_.” He giggled.

Mycroft didn’t respond to the taunt. He kept his back to Jim as he shrugged out of his suit jacket, folding and laying it over a wingback chair. He unbuttoned his sleeves, rolling them carefully to reveal his forearms. 

Jim frowned and pushed further, “I’d have thought you’d be appreciative of me taking Sherlock’s attention away from the doctor for a bit – I know how _that_ relationship irks you. Jealousy really doesn’t look good on you, Mikey.”

“Put your drink down on the coffee table – coaster, please – and then remove everything from the waist down and bend over the arm of the sofa.”

His tone gave him away and Jim couldn’t help but grin, even though Mycroft was right – he was nervous. No matter how much he enjoyed it, Jim always got the same heart fluttering, ear rushing apprehension before playing like this. To be fair, it wasn’t exactly _playing_ with Mycroft Holmes. There had been times when Jim was sure the man might actually kill him.

Of course, not in the official, government sanctioned torture session Jim had been through. Oh no. Even with Mycroft leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and directing his lackeys to beat Jim with fists; to pour water over his face until he choked and convulsed; to burn him with heated metal – that had been clean, sterile, safe even – nothing like the BDSM dungeon scene the ice man so secretly craved. With no safe words, of course. 

It almost made Jim laugh to imagine Mycroft standing there turning his nose up at the torture and pretending like he had no interest in sullying his hands with such _violence_. Jim’s subsequent secret private sessions with Mycroft had certainly proved otherwise. The suspicions Jim had long had from observing Mycroft were correct, after all.

Jim took his time undressing, tossing his shoes and socks aside, shimmying (a bit more than strictly necessary) out of his jeans and pants, his short t-shirt covering nothing below his waist, bending over and presenting Mycroft with a plentiful view of his bared backside. He slunk like a cat into position, draping himself dramatically over the arm of the sofa and giving his hips a little wiggle. His heart may have been trying to beat out of his chest, but he could certainly play the role of cheeky submissive since he suspected Mycroft enjoyed it.

He heard movement and then practically jumped as Mycroft’s hand made sharp contact with Jim’s left buttock. A second spank to his right. Four more – back and forth – in quick succession. Mycroft wasn’t holding back and Jim’s body tensed as he gasped at the initial shocking pain. Thankfully, his brain caught up quickly.

“Oooh, your hand, Mikey? How _intimate_ ,” two more tremendously hard spanks that made him shout. “I’ll admit I was a bit worried by you calling me ‘James’ earlier . . . “

Mycroft didn’t respond, but kept spanking – hard, relentless. Jim’s nails dug into the soft material of the sofa cushion. God, that _hurt_. His arse was really stinging now, pain blossoming with each smack and warmth spreading across his bottom. There would be bruises just from this. It made his cock hard. He squeezed his eyes shut and panted, toes twitching as he began to grind his hips against the arm of the sofa.

“Hurts, Daddy …” he murmured.

Mycroft stopped and scoffed, “Enough of that.”

Jim smirked. Did Mycroft mean the grinding or his choice of terminology? “Of course, my apologies, b-” he almost said it. Almost.

“It appears you’re ready for a sharper lesson,” Mycroft said.

Jim craned his neck to watch the other man briefly leave the room before returning with a new implement in hand – 

“A cane?” Jim’s eyebrows shut up. “How very public school. Shall I call you headmaster instead, then – ?” His taunt was cut short as Mycroft whipped the rattan cane across Jim’s arse. Jim howled and leapt up, hands grabbing at the thin line of fire that bloomed across his arse. _Damn_ , but that smarted!

He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft, feeling petulant, “Oh, no, of course not – not Headmaster,” he tsked. “I suppose _that_ never did it for you. But what about …” he lowered his voice, practically whispering in a put upon baritone, “Please don’t, _Brother_!”

Bingo. Mycroft’s jaw twitched. Jim knew which buttons to push, and Mycroft was so _easy_. The British Government was just so _sensitive_ about wanting to fuck his little brother. Jim wondered if he already had – maybe just a few clandestine strokes in the dark? He hadn’t been able to parse out the details yet. Mycroft may have been sensitive, but he was careful.

“Back into position, I’ve barely even begun with you,” Mycroft ordered calmly. Slowly, Jim lay back down, his bottom still throbbing. “Do you need your wrists bound? I’m assuming you don’t want any broken fingers.”

And even though bondage made him more than a little nervous, Jim shifted and tucked his hands in the small of his back, offering his wrists to Mycroft’s waiting handcuffs. He didn’t trust himself to hold position on the receiving end of the Ice Man’s angry cane.

“Do those belong to the Detective Inspector?” he couldn’t help but needle Mycroft, even with his well-being in the man’s hands. It was a compulsion. “Do you cuff him, or does he cuff you?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know?” 

And then Mycroft lit into him, the whistling of the cane through the air the only warning before each cut snapped across Jim’s vulnerable backside. Mycroft paused briefly between each stroke, letting the pain of the welt rise to its peak before delivering the next. He allowed many cuts to cross, wrenching involuntary screams from Jim’s lungs. He painted wheals down the backs of Jim’s thighs. It was agony – fire, pain, torture – but the longer it went on, the more Jim was able to drift and the more rigid his cock became.

Jim’s face felt hot as he shouted, squirmed, and gasped for breath. Sweat beaded at his brow. The relentless strokes of fire making him lightheaded. His buttocks were ablaze. It was anguish of the most exquisite caliber. 

The onslaught stopped suddenly, and Jim could hear Mycroft panting as well. There was shuffling, the tell-tale zip, and Mycroft spitting – presumably into his own hand. Not nearly enough lubricant. Intentional. The Ice Man hadn’t been exaggerating when he threatened Jim with pain.

Jim yelped at the press of wool trousers against his welted backside. Mycroft spread his abused buttocks and forced his cock into the reluctant pucker. Jim grunted and bore down, trying to ease the intrusion, but it still hurt. Badly. His insides tore and Mycroft’s trousers were like steel wool scraping against his well-whipped arse. His entire being became his tortured backside – welts and anus on fire, throbbing. He gritted his teeth and sucked in his breath, letting out a shaky groan. However, his erection persisted. Later, with another drink in hand, he may wonder what was wrong with him – how and why he was hardwired so strangely, but for now all he could do was gasp and moan and cry out in some hybrid of pleasure-pain.

He began to go out of his mind with it, and that made him reckless. “I do wonder who’d be more horrified to see you this way – to see your true colors?” Perhaps he just craved the abuse – needing more, more, more. Needing not only to toe the line, but to brazenly step over it – see how far he could push and survive, barreling headfirst into danger. “Your policeman lover or your baby brother?”

“If you can still talk, then I’ve been too easy on you,” Mycroft played at sounding aloof, but the annoyance was certainly there. “I should have caned your anus before fucking you. I suppose I still can after I’m finished, of course – I bet that would _really_ hurt.” He emphasized his point with several brutal thrusts and slapped Jim’s arse. He gripped Jim’s hips tighter, cruelly letting his nails graze and dig into the raised wheals.

Jim yelped and groaned, but he still persisted in Mycroft’s torment, insanity reigning. “What would Detective Inspector Lestrade say if he knew you were this deranged?” he grunted out with some effort. “Do you think he suspects? Do you think he suspects about Sherlock? He may be a simpleton, but has he realized you’ve fucked your baby brother?”

Mycroft grabbed the neck of Jim’s shirt in his fist and wrenched him upright, back against Mycroft’s chest, his cock still buried in his arse. 

“Will nothing but death shut you up?” he growled into Jim’s ear, giving him a shake as if he were a naughty dog. Well, mystery solved, then! Mycroft’s untempered reaction gave him away, and by God if Jim wasn’t a little bit surprised that the Holmes brothers had already crossed that boundary.

Suddenly – a knife at Jim’s throat. Oh _my_. This was why Jim enjoyed Mycroft Holmes so much. He occasionally managed to surprise him. The sharp blade scraped dangerously against his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“I could kill you right now, you know.” Mycroft threatened, voice dark, deadly, but matter-of-fact. The blade pressed hard enough against Jim’s skin to draw a few droplets of blood. “I could cut your throat right here and watch you bleed out while I fuck your corpse. It isn’t like there would be any repercussions. Sure, those on your payroll would wonder why the gravy train stopped, but they wouldn’t _care_. The media would wonder what happened to that elusive criminal, but they’d move on. Nobody cares what happens to a low-class gutter rat who’s overstepped his station by resorting to a life of crime.”

Jim barked out a crazed laugh. Mycroft was perfect. Brilliant and so, so easy – “Ice Man” indeed. More like one brutal fuck away from emotional wreckage. Jim may have been the one who was bound, beaten, bleeding, and debased, but he had Mycroft exactly where he wanted him.

“You won’t kill me, Mycroft – do you know how I know? You need me. You know why, right? You could never hurt Sherlock like this, could you, Mikey? Oh, you’d want to, because you’re a bloody sadist, but you wouldn’t – couldn’t. That’s why you need me. You can play pretend I’m him with a shorter haircut and a different accent. Should I grow my hair out? Would that help with the illusion?”

The knife vanished and was replaced by Mycroft’s hand, long fingers wrapping around Jim’s neck and squeezing. He fucked Jim violently, the angle letting him ram against his prostate. Jim couldn’t breathe. His buttocks and arsehole ablaze. His shoulders and wrists hurt from his hands being cuffed behind his back. And his cock was painfully, unbelievably hard. As his vision tunneled, he felt both fear and pleasure mounting. Overwhelmed, he let out a strangled cry as tears – honest to God tears – burned his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He came untouched, barely noticing when Mycroft followed close behind.

Jim knew he would never get enough of this. He was addicted, and Mycroft was, too. Both unable to resist the allure of the habit they had stumbled into – some corrupt façade of a relationship born of frustration and hatred. 

One of them would certainly end up killing the other – either directly or indirectly. Of that, he was sure. Kill or be killed. James Moriarty honestly couldn’t decide which way he’d prefer it.


End file.
